


Waiting On Nothing to Bite

by cordite



Category: True Detective
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1302592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordite/pseuds/cordite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More or less what it says on the tin. Just a quicky of the boys gone fishing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting On Nothing to Bite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fluorineandsilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluorineandsilver/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Light Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298128) by [fluorineandsilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluorineandsilver/pseuds/fluorineandsilver). 



The thing about fishing in the deep bayou is that it ends up mostly being just sitting on your ass until it goes half numb and drinking until catching shit becomes irrelevant. Not like you’d want whatever you dragged outta that nasty-ass water anyhow, not since the hurricanes and all that.

It’s kinda funny, Marty guesses, the two of them out here, making a day of it. Mostly it’s that he wasn’t even the one who suggested it. Rust had been all nervy and itchy and shit since cutting off that stupid fucking ponytail. Marty had made a half-assed Samson and Delilah joke, which had earned him a good, hard smack to the jaw, just to prove who the fuck was who in this relationship. Marty had just kinda laughed to himself, recognizing those dumb-shit kids they were coming out just as strong as if it was ’95. Jesus Christ, kids? He really was turning into an old fucking man.

 

“Did a bug crawl up your ass?” says Marty over scrambled eggs one morning. No one ever accused him of being a master chef, but he makes what he makes tasty as hell.

“What?” says Rust, sleep-dumb still, even with his knee jackhammering under his ratty-ass bathrobe.

“You been crawlin’ out of your goddamn skin, like, the past week. And don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.” Rust pointedly stops jiggling his leg, the sonuvabitch. “You wanna tell me what that shit’s all about?”

Rust bites at a hangnail, chewing it half to death before he answers. “Sometimes I just get this claustrophobic feeling, man. You know what I’m saying?”

“I never fucking know what you’re saying.”

“I don’t mean this.” He gestures vaguely between himself and Marty. “I mean this.” He gestures even more vaguely at apparently everything in the whole fucking universe. "Just sort of feeling every corner lately. Like, shit, man. Feel like a fucking fifty car pile up of a person. My definitions are crowding onto me, and I feel like if don't just give 'em a big fuck you that's all I'm gonna be." 

Marty rolls his eyes in the way he's seen Audrey do. "Rust, y'got cabin fever. You cooped yourself up practically a month. What in the hell did you expect was gonna happen?" And then under his breath, loud enough for the motherfucker across the breakfast table to hear, "Definition bullshit." 

"Maybe," says Rust, in the closest thing to an admission as Marty's likely to get. 

 

That's the last of it that Marty hears until Rust wakes him up out of a nightmare sleep, his eyes looking animal-wild in the dark. 

"You remember where you stashed that old boat of yours?"

It takes Marty a second to figure out what the hell he's talking about, still half in his recurring dream where Rust lies naked in the mud, the slit in his belly bubbling blood and gaping like a mouth, the crown of antlers and yellow roots sitting crooked on his head. Marty keeps his voice even and casually glances at the mottled scar that stretches from Rust's navel to his sternum when he says, "Probably could."

 

So here they are, getting mosquito-bit to high hell, listening to the cicadas laughing their asses off at them, both of them feeling like at least half a million bucks, on the last legs of their case of Lone Star. And Rust, well, he looks happier than a girl on prom night and he sure as shit ain't dead, so, Marty figures, he must be doing something right. 

“C’mere asshole,” he says, with a knife-gash grin, leaning across the space between their lawn chairs, the plastic armrest digging into the beer gut he swears up and down he’s gonna get rid of by September, even though everyone knows that’s a goddamn lie.

Rust kicks his feet down off the railing of the deck, the heels of his shoes clicking hard on the wood. He leans the rest of the way between them, gives Marty a kind of crooked look, then plants one on him, their matching five o’clock shadows rasping against one another. They stay like that, the yellow light of the big, fat, Cajun sun burning both of their necks to a hick red. Marty kinda can’t help but touch Rust’s warm hair, more dirt grey than blond now, just for a sec, before both of them pull back in some dumb, gruff machismo, neither of them ever having quite figured out how to be tender.

“Never gonna get used to these fuckin’ whiskery kisses,” says Marty. Truth of the thing is he’s used to it good and plenty, but if he ever said shit about it to Rust, he’d probably grow back that ugly ass mustache just to be a dick. Marty smiles again, and leans back in his rickety lawn chair, waiting on nothing to bite.


End file.
